


Oak and Linden

by rannadylin



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Metamorphoses - Ovid
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Fenhawke Week 2016, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Ovid, baucis and philemon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5828194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rannadylin/pseuds/rannadylin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tentatively subtitled "Hawkis and Fenlemon."</p>
<p>A tale and a translation from Ovid’s Metamorphoses: the myth of Baucis and Philemon in the persons of Hawke and Fenris, in their retirement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oak and Linden

**Author's Note:**

> Tuesday, Jan. 26 is “In Any Universe” day for FenHawke Week 2, calling for crossovers and AUs. Discarding vague ideas of a Star Wars or Princess Bride crossover (not saying that I won’t come back to those ideas someday, though…) I decided to go with something from mythology. My favorite thing in Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Baucis and Philemon, one of the few (only?) with a happy ending. Fenris and Hawke need a happy ending, so I made it work for them! Also, it means Aged!Hawke and Aged!Fenris, surprisingly pleasing to write.
> 
> Also, I’ve been wanting to take a shot at podfic, since I used to record stories and, well, sort of discjockeying for (and edit/produce) a LOTRO podcast. I liked the sound of this as I read it out loud while proofreading, so I just went ahead and recorded it.

 

The years have not been kind, but we have been kind to each other. Fame and infamy alike have forgotten us in our old age, and we’re fine with that. It’s not much, this hut of ours in the foothills of Sundermount, but I have Fenris and he has me and we never really needed anything more than that.

But I know what it is to be a refugee, and he knows what it is to be a fugitive, and so when the strangers knock on our door, of course we welcome them in.

He’s an elf and she appears human, an old woman and a bald man. Not so different from ourselves, though Fenris has kept most of his hair while the years have faded mine as white as his. I’m fairly sure those aren’t just walking sticks they lean on; I know a mage’s staff when I see one, considering the number of mine we’ve sold off over the years when the garden wasn’t all it could be. The sort of magic this quiet life of ours needs rarely calls for a staff, after all.

“Void take a night like this, hm?” I say with a nod to the downpour outside as I shake out their sodden cloaks and hang them to dry at the hearth.

The bald elf exchanges a glance with his companion. “Perhaps it shall.”

There’s not much room in this one-room hut for furniture, so Fenris hauls out two stools stored under the bed and I spread an old blanket over them for comfort. “You’ve traveled far?” he surmises as the strangers rest their weary limbs. Keeping busy even as they answer, he picks up his sword in its sheath. It’s dull with disuse -- at our age, hunting down slavers and blood mages isn’t that healthy -- but handy for reaching the rafters, where a little of last season’s trade with the butcher still remains, smoked by the hearth fire.

Fenris returns the sword to its hooks on the wall and draws a knife to trim off a bit of the bacon while the woman answers, “We’ve wandered long. Most of this day seemed spent in seeking shelter, though. Every inn in Kirkwall has _no vacancy_ signs out.”

“We resorted to knocking on doors,” the bald elf adds, while I chop a carrot and a pair of potatoes Fenris scrounged up in the garden this morning. An onion would do wonders for the stew, but we used the last of them yesterday. That goose in the yard always pulls them up too young, but the bird’s become like a pet and we make do without onions when we must. Hopefully our guests won’t object. We’re used to a thin broth ourselves; old age and contentment need little more.

Entertaining guests calls for something special, so I spread the table with its Satinalia coverlet, tugging the patched bits away from our company’s side. “Kirkwall’s never been known for its...hospitality,” I comment, knowing that if knocking on doors in town had done them any good, they’d not have ended up out here in the foothills.

“The Veil is thin here,” the elf answers, “and in such a place, the things people see may curtail their trust.”

Fenris glances at me. “There were certainly such sights, in our youth.”

“I don’t think it got any better after we retired, Fenris.”

“Little enough we may do about it now, Hawke.”

I sigh, reluctant even this near the end of our lives to admit impotence. No matter how many of people’s problems fell to us in the old days, I _liked_ solving problems. Bringing hope. Right now the only problem I can solve is how to be gracious hosts to two miserable travelers, shunned by Kirkwall in the worst weather we’ve seen this month.

We have bread, at least, even if there’s no butter. But I picked wild strawberries day before last, and there’s cheese and boiled eggs, and maybe the wine’s a bit on the sour side, far removed from the Agregio we shared when we first became friends, but it will have to do. I grab jars from the pantry-shelf, dishing everything out into our best dinnerware, simple clay though it is, and crowd the tiny table with the bounty. It wobbles under the weight; the potsherd propping up the one leg shorter than the others protests.

We gather the stools around the table and begin. The travelers provide tales of the world in exchange for our feast; I ask after Ferelden, though Fenris makes no mention of Tevinter. They say little enough of their business in Kirkwall, but then neither do we speak of the days I was its Champion. Kirkwall’s not our business anymore, really.

The stew bubbles as merrily as the conversation (that’s not saying a great deal, to be fair: the woman shows a fair wit but the elf is dour, and Fenris and I are accustomed to much silence after all our years together). Stretched four ways tonight, it’s not quite enough to fill a belly, but when it’s gone there’s always dessert. We have nuts aplenty from the trees out back, and Fenris prides himself on that apple tree. Besides, he found a honeycomb not long ago, and anything tastes like a celebration with honey on top.

It’s during dessert that I notice something odd. I’m sure we should be nearly out of the wine by now; the pitcher wasn’t even half full, and there’s no more when that’s gone. Except that there is. Every time I peer into the pitcher it’s full. In fact this time I think it’s fuller than when we started this meal. The wine’s rising. It’s multiplying. Can wine do that? If it’s magic, it’s beyond _my_ abilities. I could freeze it or boil it but it’s still the same wine.

Fenris meets my eyes over the table: he’s noticed too. As one we turn to our guests. “This is a strange magic,” Fenris says.

“You have been most generous hosts,” says the bald elf. “We would be remiss not to return the favor.”

“Yes,” I say, “but you can’t just _do_ that. Can you? Making more wine out of thin air? Where is it coming from? How does it work? Can you _teach_ me?”

The woman chuckles with dry amusement. “Some things never change, I see.”

“Just what sort of mages _are_ you?” I press them.

She stands, as does her companion. “Come with us,” he says, “and see.”

“The storm --” I begin, but in two steps they’re at the back door, out in the garden, and I see the rain’s stopped. Fenris arches one pale eyebrow: a question; an invitation. I take his hand with a grin.

I bring my staff to lean on and he takes his sword down again from the wall; it’s a decent walking-stick now even though he seldom has cause to wield it against an enemy. Thus propped, we make our way through the garden with slow steps. Our guests have gone ahead, up the mountain path.

It’s a long walk in the mud, joints aching, leaning on our weapons and on each other, but the sky after the storm is a blue seldom seen and the air smells alive, electric. Time slips by, beguiled by our plodding steps, till we stand near Sundermount’s summit. The strangers raise their hands toward Kirkwall, far below.

“It begins here,” says the bald elf. “The Veil is thin; all the easier to remove it here, and return this part of the world to what it was before the great divide. Spirits will walk with mortals; magic will return to all. No mage will suffer for their gift when all bear it alike. No more will the People be cut off from their heritage.”

As he speaks, the heavens over Kirkwall shine. It is not the light of the sun or the moons far away, but a light present in the atmosphere itself. It begins above the Gallows, and it grows, like a quiet fire spreading to engulf the whole city.

“You’re talking about giving everyone magic, all at once,” I realize. “There will be chaos. When I came into my magic I nearly burnt down a barn. And some of those people -- they fear it, a great deal. What they may do…”

“We will not leave them without a defense,” says the woman. “See, on the path below us, your house, that small house to which you alone of Kirkwall welcomed us, even now it becomes a temple of Mythal. Refuge will be granted there, to all who seek it, and justice to those who bring their grievances before me. And since you two have, I think, a better understanding of the burdens of magic than most,” she chuckles, “you will administer that refuge and that justice.”

“At our age?” I scoff.

“Believe me, Hawke,” she smiles, with a glance that pierces to the secret places of my soul where even Fenris does not go, “you have some good years in you yet.”

“And you have earned a boon for your hospitality,” adds the bald elf. “What would you ask of Mythal and the Dread Wolf?”

I turn to Fenris. He reaches for my hands and in his eyes I see what he would ask; what he would always ask. It is my wish also. I nod, and he speaks.

“Since we have lived all our years in harmony,” he says, “let the same hour bring the death of us both, that I may never see the tomb of my wife, nor I be buried by her. Nothing could be worse, for either of us, than the thought of living without one another.”

They nod, the Dread Wolf and Mythal, gods to neither of us yet powers to be reckoned with more than mere mages, and depart. Robes of state have replaced our threadbare clothes; marble walls and mosaics have replaced our thatched hut. There’s work to do, problems to solve, _hope_ to bring.

Mythal spoke truly: we have good years ahead of us. But even if they are more interesting than the former part of our retirement, they pass no less quickly. A day comes when we stand on the temple steps and Fenris squeezes my hand. “Something’s happening,” he says.

Something is: He’s glowing. His lyrium lines have not come alive like this in years, but they flow with magic once more. I reach for him, and the light spreads to my hands, my arms, swirls around me in an echo of his lines. The magic grows to surround us both as one, a maelstrom concealing us from the crowd of supplicants in the temple courtyard.

In the maelstrom is a door. We step through, hand in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> On my tumblr (rannadylin) you can find my rough translation of the lines of Ovid on which this is based!


End file.
